Déjà Vu
by DiamondTopaz
Summary: Jane and Jesse flushed their drugs that night. Despite Walt's warnings that Jane will ruin Jesse, the pair plans to run away to New Zealand. Everything seems fine until, at the airport, Jesse discovers both Jane AND his money are missing. An alternate ending to 2x12 and an alt version of 2x13, with plenty of callbacks to the original. FINISHED!
1. We're Doing This For Us

**Déjà Vu**

**Chapter One: We're Doing This For Us**

"I say we flush what we've got left, and we start tonight," Jane proclaimed, striding into the bedroom with a brown duffle bag in the crook of her arm and two stacks of money in her hand. She paused at the doorway, joined shortly by Jesse.

"Yeah, we can do that," he concurred with a hesitant tone. "Definitely."

The words hung in the air like smoke, alongside the lofty pledge of a fresh start in New Zealand with their funds newly acquired from Mr. White.

The couples' eyes were fixed on the nightstand by the bed, where a candle cast its sultry light on a needle propped over a spoon. They stared, lusting for that spoon's cargo, for an indefinite number of seconds. The tip of the needle pointed to a translucent plastic wrapper, and the gritty black contents emitted a siren call only heard by Jesse and Jane. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to act. Or to change their mind and succumb to the call.

"Did…did you want me to…get it…?" Jesse finally asked.

Jane nodded without stopping, still entranced. "Yeah…that's probably best…"

He inched forward, as if it were a rattlesnake he reached for. He picked up the tar and needle, to the sound of a _thud _as Jane dropped the bag in the floor by the bed. A glance over to her revealed a desperate expression.

_Just one more, _her glossed eyes and quivering lip pleaded. _Just one more hit. _

Looking back to the heroin in his hands, he heard the same seductive whisper in his own mind. _Just one more hit._

No.

He closed his fist around the stuff and looked up at Jane. He recalled her words from only a few seconds after Mr. White left them with the money. _We're not going to shoot all this up our arms. We're way better than that._

"We're doing this for us," he reminded her.

"I know," she murmured. "For us."

She looked on with an almost helpless countenance as he proceeded to gather up all other remnants of drugs in the house. Both their needles and heroin, pot, crystal…whatever was lying around, he picked it all up and took it to the bathroom. Standing over the toilet, his boiling blood began to scream at him.

_One more hit! Just one more!_

Shutting his eyes, he dropped everything into the bowl. There were small, intermittent splashes.

_For us. For _her_._

He flushed, and everything that had made them feel good for the past few weeks was whisked away into a sewer.

Except the empty needles. It dawned on him he didn't know the right way to dispose of them. Surely they don't just get thrown away; a kid could get a hold of them in the dumpster, or something. That would be really bad.

"What do I do with the needles?" Jesse called into the bedroom. No answer. He ventured in, only to find Jane seated on the side of the bed with the brown bag at her feet, staring off into space.

"Jane?" he tried again. "Do I just throw them away, or…?"

"Don't worry about it," she cut him off, already visibly tense. "I'll get rid of them in the morning."

He put them back on the table for now and sat down beside her. Reluctantly, he placed a hand on her arm. When she didn't object, his hand slid around her back to her other shoulder. Then he pulled her towards him comfortingly. He was reassured by her arm in turn coiling around his waist.

"This was for the best, right?" he prompted her.

She nodded meekly. "We'll be glad we did it when we get off the plane in New Zealand tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he repeated, a little surprised.

"Yeah. The sooner the better, right?" she reasoned. "Less time for my Dad or that Walter White guy to try to stop us."

"You're right. Tomorrow, then." He reached out his hand for hers, and she offered it in return. Their fingers entwined in a pact. "_Nothing _is gonna stop us."

(***)

Walt's excuse to Skyler of running around town looking for diapers was wearing thin. But there was just one more thing he had to do before he could steer himself back home. For the second time that night, he knocked on Jesse's front door. As he expected, there was no answer. Either they were both already tripping, or that girl had a tight grip on his leash, preventing him from answering.

That girl. Just thinking of her made Walt grit his teeth. Today, she had forced his hand into turning over Jesse's share, though abundantly clear it would only pave his further decline into addiction. Then, when Jesse had guaranteed him that he would never see either of them again, it was apparent their partnership was dissolved.

Nothing remained to stop Walt from washing his hands of the pair. Yet, here he was again. A new resolve had been kindled in him after a chat with a stranger at the bar. The stranger had complained of a troublesome daughter, and he in turn had complained of a problematic "nephew." The consensus between them had been that no matter what, you can never give up on family.

Though not by blood, Jesse was family. After they'd seen each other through the worst of the drug trade, from a terrifying hostage experience to certain death by dehydration in the New Mexican desert, Walt was not about to let Jesse's own worst enemy be himself. Or _her_.

When there was no response at the door, he proceeded around to the back. Peering through the window, sure enough, he spied both of them asleep or passed out. Not surprisingly, the door had not yet been replaced from his recent, necessary break-in. The only measure that had been taken at all was a cardboard slab affixed over the hole with duct tape. This allowed him to easily reach in and unlock the door.

Inside, he proceeded to the bed. Jesse lay on his back. She lay halfway on top of him, head on his bare chest. His hand was lost in her hair. Two emptied heroin needles on the nightstand suggested to Walt his efforts here might be entirely futile. But all the same, he shook Jesse's arm.

"Jesse. Wake up," he instructed with the same austerity as if the kid had just dozed off in his chemistry class.

Jesse's eyes snapped open instantly, then narrowed. "Dude, what the—!" he started, beginning to lift his torso, until Jane stirred uneasily on his chest. He lay back down and rested her head against his beating heart to soothe her.

"Thanks a lot; she just now finally got to sleep," he barely whispered, petting Jane's hair. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk," Walt whispered back.

"Fine, but outside."

With Jane subdued, he gently slid her head off his chest to get up. She kept on sleeping undisturbed, her dark hair adorning his pillow in wisps. Silently climbing out of bed, he ushered Walt out to the back porch, promptly meeting him there after pulling on his crumpled sweatshirt off the floor.

"Seriously, Mr. White, do you come over here every night to watch me and my girlfriend sleep? 'Coz I gotta say, that's pretty messed up."

"Will you shut up and listen for once?"

The estranged business partners resumed their conversation in hushed whispers on the back porch.

"I could be back home by now with my family, but here I am again because I had to at least try to bore some sense through your thick skull," Walt continued in a sharp breath.

"Whatever, so bore away, bitch."

"She's trouble."

"She's none of your business."

"You might not see it yet, Jesse, but she'll ruin both of us," Walt insisted. "Do you think that little blackmail stunt she pulled today will be the end of it? After you two are done smoking and shooting all that money away, she'll come prying for more. Assuming you're not in body bags by then."

"Yeah well, for your information, we're already on our way to recovery," Jesse hissed back. "We just flushed the rest of the stuff a couple hours ago. So, maybe we have a little more willpower than you're giving us credit for."

"Recovery is not that simple," Walt shook his head. "She had no problem extorting from me. How long do you expect it'll be before she falls back off the wagon and does the same thing to you?"

Jesse glared venomously. "That's not gonna happen alright? Jane's not like that; you just don't know her."

"You're throwing your life away. And for what? For _her?_" Walt jabbed a finger at the cardboard taped over the hole in the door, pushing away a corner to reveal a glimpse of the femme fatale still asleep in the bedroom within.

Jesse balled a fist. The urge to throw a potted plant at the old cue ball's head was potent. But that would wake Jane up for sure. He didn't want her all on edge, seeing Mr. White here.

Scratch that, he didn't want Mr. White here, period.

He gave his so-called partner an abrupt shove, nearly knocking him down the steps. "How about you piss off back to your family now, huh?" he spat. "You got your own kids to boss around. You can just stay out of my personal life, you know."

Walt regained his composure from the stumble, then hesitated. It looked like no formula of words existed to get through to this deadbeat. Why had he even bothered? He turned to leave.

_Love them, _the stranger's words at the bar reprised in his head._ Never give up on family_.

At the gateway to the street, he turned back to Jesse. "You need to do what's best for both of you."

Then he left. At least he knew the message was received, judging by the obscene gesture the young man shot.


	2. Justified

**Chapter Two: Justified**

Early the next morning, a tarnished red station wagon sped down the highway, amidst little traffic but the occasional freight truck. Two lumpy, hastily packed suitcases and the brown duffle bag occupied the station wagon's back seat. In the front, the two occupants bobbed their heads in tandem with the rhythm on a mixed cassette tape. Jane watched with a grin as Jesse pounded out the drum beat on the steering wheel. He sang along with the alternative rock track blasting through the speakers.

_"Black is the color and beauty is the game!  
The beasties come to get me but I can't feel their pain!  
I like my Funyuns salty, like my Jolly Ranchers grape!  
Can't say I really dig the way my brain you tried to rape!"_

"Whoa, wait. 'I like my Funyons salty, and I like my Jolly Ranchers grape'?" Jane repeated, stifling laughter as she raised her voice over the high volume of the song.

"What? C'mon, 'Fallacies' was the first single I ever wrote," Jesse justified, also raising his voice to match hers. "'Sides, that Funyuns line was supposed to be like a… I dunno, what do you call it where one thing happens, then the next thing is, like, totally random? Non…something?"

"Non-sequitur?"

"I guess. But yeah, all the greatest hits have something kinda revolutionary and awesome to set them apart. Twaughthammer was going to be the next big thing."

"_Twaught_hammer. Right." Jane rolled her eyes. "Well, sans Funyuns, I could have definitely heard this playing on 104.1 The Edge at work," she commended. "Nice guitar riff. The drum section could have used some refining, though."

"Right, right, totally. Dunno what the deal was with our drummer," he agreed, gazing forward at the road with a flushed expression.

She smirked. "That was you playing, wasn't it?"

"Heh…it was an off day. Hey, our exit!"

They deviated from the highway. A road sign pointed them to Albuquerque International Airport. Not far now.

Jesse turned the volume down on the tape after 'Fallacies' ended. "Wait, didn't you say your Dad works at the airport?" he suddenly remembered. "He's not gonna catch us, is he?"

"I'd be surprised," Jane leered with one corner of her mouth. "He's probably on the way to the apartment right now to take me to rehab, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That," he nodded. He had been so excited to pack up and leave that morning with her by his side; he'd almost completely forgotten the reason for the rush.

A moment's silence passed.

"Are you gonna miss it?" he asked.

"Miss what?" she gazed out the window.

"You know, just…everything. Albuquerque? Your job drawing tats? …Your Dad?"

She scoffed. "Oh God, no. Trust me, we'll be _way_ better off where we're going. No one breathing down our necks about every little thing. A clean slate."

"Yeah. You're right."

Before much longer, they were parked at the airport and retrieving their bags out of the back. They ventured into the front of the airport, side by side. Jesse draped his arm around Jane, and noticed she was faintly shivering. He gave her a squeeze. "You okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I just really could have gone for that one last hit," she murmured, leaning against him to stabilize herself.

"Me too," he admitted, steering them to the ticket line. "But you were totally right. We had to get clean before we did this, or else we'd have just been holding ourselves back."

An irresolute nod. "Still, what was the worst that could have happened?"

Early hour aside, there was already a huge line at the ticket counter, of which they were now at the very back. This could be a long wait.

"Are _you_ gonna miss it?" Jane inquired after a few moments.

"Well, I…" Jesse's thoughts drifted to his posse: Badger and Skinny Pete. He'd sorta fallen out of touch with them ever since…Combo… He wasn't sure if he'd even introduced them to Jane, come to think of it. It'd probably be awhile until they came looking for him. But, he could always call them and explain everything once he got settled in. He'd just have to work out the time difference, is all.

Then there was Mr. White.

Who did that old geezer think he was? Back in high school, the worst Jesse ever had to put up with from him was the occasional detention after class. But now, just because he decides to add 'make fortune in crystal trade' to his bucket list, he thinks he can pick that classroom ruler right back up and start bossing Jesse around in his own private life? There were boundaries, and when Mr. White came over the previous night to tell him Jane was trouble, that boundary wasn't just crossed; it fucking exploded.

Then again, Jesse did give his word that he would ensure Mr. White's family got their money if anything happened to him. How was he gonna do that from halfway around the globe? He shrugged. He'd call Saul first chance he got and make sure all that was taken care of; he owed Mr. White that much, anyway.

"It'll be weird at first," he finally replied to Jane. "I mean, I heard somewhere the seasons are backwards down there or something." He looked her in the eyes. "But I got everything I need right here with me."

While pulling off what he assumed would pass for a charming grin, he inched in to kiss her cheek. After that, he advanced towards her soft pink lips. His arm tightened around her waist. Her hand glided around the back of his neck. If this were one of those chick movies, this'd be the part where everyone in the airport started clapping.

"Ugh," Jane exhaled after pulling away. "If you're gonna do that the whole flight, at least promise you'll give me an aisle seat near the lavatory," she joked, reciprocating with a peck on his neck.

They could have been in line for a few minutes, half an hour, or two hours for all Jesse knew or cared. He had his arm around his soul mate. He had a bright future, a hundred thousand miles away from this craphole he'd come to associate with corpse stew in bathtubs, axe-crazy kingpins, and a callous, uncaring family. As far as he was concerned, this long and boring wait in line at the airport was his gateway to paradise.

"Y'know what? I'm gonna just go outside and have a smoke," Jane spoke up. "If I don't do something to take the edge off before we're stuck on a plane for hours, I'm going to have an attack."

"Sure, babe. Your lucky lighter gun's in here." He released his grip on her and handed her the duffle back.

She readily accepted it and rewarded him by planting one more kiss on his forehead. "I'll be right back."

Duffle bag and suitcase in hand, she stepped out of the long line and exited out the front door. Once far enough away from the ironclad domain of the "No Smoking" signs, she knelt down and unzipped the bag. At the top were some of her clothes (including a negligee or two), a sketchbook and pencils, and other miscellany that wouldn't fit in her suitcase. She dug around for the cigarette pack and lighter.

Instead, her hand clasped a stack of Benjamins hidden under her stuff. Her heart began to race.

(***)

_"Hey, if you're trying to sell me something, I got four little words for you: Do Not Call List. However, if you're cool, leave it at the beep." Beeeep._

"Yo, Jane. Yeah, uh, I just got out of line, and the guy at the counter says we need, like, passports and stuff before we can get tickets. And there's not actually a plane that goes the whole way from here; we have to switch flights in, y'know, Honolulu or some weird place like that. Hey, maybe we could even chill there a day or two. I mean, that's where Piña Coladas come from, right? So, yeah. Soon as you get back inside, we'll check out this travel agency thing the guy told me about and, I guess, get everything taken care of. See you in a few."

_Click._

After leaving a message about this somewhat aggravating setback, Jesse sat down in a chair near the security gate. He waited a few minutes for a reply from Jane.

Well, it was gonna be a long flight. Maybe she took an extra long smoke break.

He waited, and waited, and waited.

He tried her phone again. Still the voicemail.

A chill ran up his spine. Her father, Donald. He couldn't have found out where they were and come to pick her up, could he? Did he have, like, eyes all over the airport or something? Maybe one of his coworkers had seen them on a security camera and called him. Pocketing his phone and gathering up his suitcase, he hurried out the front. No sign of Jane anywhere.

"Yo, anybody see a girl out here?" Jesse asked the outside patrons. "About this tall, black hair to here, and uh, I think it was, like, a Velvet Underground T-shirt?" Most of them just shrugged or ignored him altogether. One woman, who had been sitting on the curb awaiting a ride, looked up.

"Oh, I saw her, alright. I saw her right as she cut in front of me to get in the taxicab I had just flagged," she grumbled bitterly. "No one's in so big a hurry they can't wait their turn."

Jesse swallowed hard. "Did she have a brown duffle bag?"

"Knocked me out of the way with the freaking thing."

Some unseen force punched him in the chest.

" …You okay, son?" The woman raised an eyebrow in concern.

Whatever the force was, it also proceeded to strangulate his every breath. "No," he choked. "She…she wouldn't…"

"Did she steal it from you?" The woman, now a self-appointed Good Samaritan, retrieved her smart phone. "Should I call somebody?"

Head shaking with some effort, he stumbled backwards and broke into a run for his hatchback.

(***)

"Go. Drive. Take the ramp up onto the highway and head downtown. Just get away from here."

An older, Hispanic cab driver narrowed his eyes at the demanding, ebony-haired passenger in his rearview mirror. "Awful big hurry. You in some kind of trouble, lady?"

Jane flashed a faux smile. "You know, that's really none of your damn business, is it?"

The driver pursed his lips, shrugged and pressed the issue no further.

Jane glanced nervously at the airport terminal receding in the rear window. Her trembling fingers searched for anything to occupy themselves with. The locks of hair hanging loose over her shoulders. The tag on the suitcase in the floorboard at her feet.

The zipper of the duffle bag in the seat beside her.

She unzipped it just enough to peek at the contents within. $480 grand in cash, nestled safely underneath her delicates. She quickly zipped it back up before that nosy cab driver could start asking more questions.

At the back of her mind somewhere was the image of Jesse standing alone in that lobby. Waiting for her. Maybe starting to realize what she'd done. She'd only just started to realize it herself.

But, she justified, she'd really just done Jesse a favor.

_I mean, come on. New Zealand? What in the hell were we thinking?_ she mused to herself, silently mouthing her thoughts as though speaking to herself. _They don't just let you stroll up to a plane with a bag full of money and a pocket full of dreams. You need papers to leave the country. Passports. Itineraries. And besides, what would have happened when we tried to get this bag through airport security? Christ, Dad would never have let me live that one down._

Her entire body expressed its anticipation of what was coming. She quivered just thinking about the chill of liquid euphoria soon to be streaming through her veins.

Sure, this wasn't technically her money. But she was the one who'd convinced Jesse's old asswipe partner to cough up what was rightfully his. She figured that made it theirs. At least some of it, right? And it wasn't like she was going to spend it _all_ on dope.

Her torso began to rock back and forth slightly as she gaped out the window, watching the rundown block pass by in the window view. The last few hours since they threw out what was left of their heroin had been unrelenting agony. In her year and a half of sobriety, she'd nearly forgotten how severe the cravings could get, how violent the shakes could be if her blood's desire wasn't satisfied.

A ragged sigh. Her father was so intent on taking her back to rehab anyway. From there on out, it'd be nothing but six straight weeks of withdrawals and mundane talk of accepting herself. What was the harm in just one more high?

She wrung her hands as she reassured herself. She could always make it up to Jesse after she had her fix.

_He'll understand. He will. All I'll have to do is slide a sketch under his door. I can see it now: "Apology Girl Returns-Part 2." Then we'll be set straight again. God, he's such a pushover."_

"…Pushover…" she mumbled just beneath her breath.

"What was that?" the cab driver piped up.

"Pull over. Yeah, pull over here. I can walk the rest of the way."

"This ain't no kind of neighborhood for you to be out alone."

"Already got _one _Dad, thanks," she retorted sourly. She reached into the duffle bag to retrieve her fare. Good thing cabs were so expensive; she didn't have time to wait on change for a $100.

Tossing a single $100 bill at the driver with an utterance of "keep the change," she got out of the cab with a firm grip on her suitcase and the duffle bag. Then she strode quickly down the seedy street, scouring for the first person who looked like he might be holding. She wondered if she could score some of that blue crystal Jesse always had around while she was at it.


	3. What Fathers Must Do

**Chapter Three: What Fathers Must Do**

Donald Margolis searched his daughter's ransacked apartment. The drawers were wide open and half-empty. The closet was home to mostly bare hangers, and one formal cobalt dress. The yellow suitcase she took to rehab last time was gone. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples, then dragged his fingertips across his eyes. Jane had run away again.

Next door at the tenant's, it looked like the same story, although the place had been such a pig sty beforehand it was hard to tell for sure. He inspected the bedroom. There were beer bottles everywhere and various undergarments lying on the floor. (Some of them his and some of them hers, Donald noted with repugnance.) Not to his surprise, the heroin and needles had disappeared from the nightstand, presumably along with their owner.

The living room was in disarray, too. There was no telling how long that Styrofoam box of Pollos scraps had been sitting on the kitchenette counter. There was still a bong on the counter too…but no traces of anything in it.

Near the flatscreen he spotted a piece of sketch paper, sporting a sketch in Jane's familiar style. A superhero named Apology Girl. He picked it up.

At that moment, a car screeched to a halt in the driveway. Donald peered through the window blinds and gritted his teeth as the junkie boyfriend sprang out of a beat-up red hatchback, looking panicked and charging for the front door.

Jane had brought some absolute terrors home to dinner in her days, but Donald couldn't recall a single one he wanted to knock senseless more. She'd been eighteen months clean. For that year and a half the weary father had slept peacefully at night, without being haunted by fears of his only child lying overdosed in a ditch somewhere.

Then along came this delinquent in a beanie cap to throw it all away and lure her back down that dangerous road.

He opened the door and stood in the doorway, stopping his resident in his tracks. The two were practically toe to toe.

"Hey, Man, I didn't read the whole lease, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't say 'Landlord busts in whenever he feels like it' anywhere in there," the tenant snapped, trying to edge past him into the apartment.

Donald's hand shot out to block the opening in the doorway. "Where is she?" he inquired just above a somber whisper.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Oh, Jane? Um, I dunno, haven't seen her today." He put his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet left and right.

Donald gave a snide chuckle. "It'll be the day when I believe that."

"Look, I'm serious, alright? I woke up, I found her gone. That's all I know," he insisted, rubbing the back of his head and neck.

"So she _did _spend the night here. That means you saw her last."

"C'mon, I thought she was with you. Weren't you the one who was all set on dragging her to rehab?"

"I was, but when I came to pick her up, there was no trace of her. And where were _you_ just now?" Donald challenged.

"At…the…Waffle House. What, is making a breakfast run suddenly a crime too, bitch?"

"There's no need for that language," Donald scolded him. He shut the front door and stepped out onto the porch. "Now, can you look me straight in the eye and tell me you honestly don't know where she is?"

The kid looked him dead in the face. "I'm telling you. My hand to God, and shi—stuff. I honestly don't know where she is. Alright? So, how about you quit riding me already?"

Donald could smell a liar. After all, he'd raised one of the best of them. This dopehead was obviously hiding something. But there was no mistaking the worried look in his eye. Donald sensed that, at least, his claim to not know Jane's whereabouts may be true. Wasting time here wasn't going to bring Donald any closer to finding her. And finding her came first. Her hooligan boyfriend could wait until later.

Before leaving, he raised a stern finger up squarely between their faces. "Just to make you aware, I'm going down to the police station now to file a Missing Person Report," he warned. "If anything's happened to her, so help me…"

"I got it, I got it. My ear's to the ground, yo."

That earned him a skeptical look.

"If I see her, you'll be the first to know," he added solemnly. "You have my word."

The older man pushed past and headed towards his car, his daughter's sketch in hand. He disregarded the shout of, "Hey, it's not like I don't care about her too, you know!" as he drove away.

Once inside, Jesse closed the door behind him and promptly slumped down to the floor by the doorway, back against the wall, knees drawn in. The shock of what had just happened was starting to catch up with him. Jane ditched him—just turned around and abandoned him in that airport. She stole every penny he had to his name and shattered his hopes of leaving this shitty life behind. All moments after he'd held her tight, kissed her and told her she was everything he needed.

He could cry, be sick and break the nearest object all at once. Instead he sat shuddering by the door for a few minutes, trying to bury that feeling of revulsion in his chest. He leaned forward against his cell phone, pressed into his forehead. After gathering the ability to form rational speech, he dialed a number.

(***)

Every so often, the White household would resound with the chipper tone of a digitized bell, followed by the excited exclamations of Skyler and Walt Jr.—wait, no, it was _Flynn_ now. Walt Sr. sat alone in the most secluded room of the house: the nursery. At least here he could close the door, utilizing the "Shh, baby's asleep" ruse.

He sat in a rocking chair, cradling his newborn daughter Holly, indulged in her fragile grip around his forefinger. The cheers of "$50 from Amarillo, Texas!" and "Y-You're in our prayers, W-Walt!" from Flynn's room went in one ear and out the other.

He realized his son meant well by publishing that charity donation website for him. But even if he _didn't _know all those generous contributions were really the product of a money-laundering scheme instigated by Saul Goodman, he still would have found it difficult to feign enthusiasm for them. His lung cancer most certainly did not make him a weak and needy victim. There was an entire drug subculture currently fearing and revering the name "Heisenburg," coveting his signature blue meth, to prove that. Not that his family was any the wiser about his double life.

Even so, with his expensive surgery to extract the lung tumor scheduled soon, he couldn't appear ungrateful for their support. As far as they knew, those chimes on were the only hope this poor, humble, mild-mannered chemistry teacher had.

His cell phone started to ring from his back pocket. "Now, who do you think that could be?" he posed to Holly, who only gawked up at him in oblivious bliss. He cautiously shifted her to one shoulder, using his free hand to answer the phone.

"Yeah."

The all-too-familiar voice on the other end was frantic and babbling. "She's gone! She's gone, Mr. White! Jane's gone!"

Perfect. Just what he needed right now.

On his arm, Holly started to stir and fuss. He held the phone away from his ear for a moment as the spastic chatter continued through the receiver, and moved the infant back to his lap. He stroked her chubby cheeks to soothe her, and returned to the call in a calming voice so as not to upset her further.

"Slow down," he instructed softly. "Slow down. Now, just take a deep breath."

"But—"

"Do it."

Jesse obeyed.

"Alright. Now, what happened?" Walt asked.

"I was…I was with Jane," Jesse recounted. "She was all shaking, y'know, all on edge since we got rid of the stuff. She said she was going out to have a smoke. And then she was gone. Took a cab, so she could be anywhere now."

"So, why are you calling me? Just file a report at the police station; the cops there will have no reason to suspect—"

"She took the money."

"What?"

"The brown bag, Man; the $480 large! She stole it!"

Walt paused, dismayed. "Let me get this straight," he resumed. "Are you telling me…that you consciously handed almost half a million dollars…over to an _addict _who, from what you're describing, was clearly showing signs of withdrawal? The exact same addict, I might add, who already extorted this exact same money once?"

In the silence that followed, Walt imagined Jesse with an expression like a guilty dog's while being hit by a newspaper. "…Her lighter and smokes were in the bag," he finally replied. "I didn't think she'd-"

"Of course you didn't think; when have you ever? And what were your girlfriend's cigarettes and lighter doing in the bag, anyway?"

"…We were at the airport," he confessed.

"The airport…?"

"Yeah, we got to talking last night before you came back over, and we thought it'd be a good idea to…lay low for awhile…in New Zealand."

"New Zealand…" Walt sucked air in slowly through his teeth. Of all the…

"All right. All right." He regained his composure. "Now, listen to me. Are you listening? Everything is going to be okay. I promise."

"Dude, if the cops find her with that bag, we are _screwed_; do you get it?!"

"No, no, listen. Calm down. Just sit tight. I know who to call," Walt assured him.

"Yeah, well, I can't exactly stay here long. Jane's Dad owns the place, and he's going to the cops right now. He's already got it in for me, so I'll be the number one suspect. And, damn, your brother-in-law would love that, wouldn't he?"

And here Walt hoped he might get a few days' peace before the surgery. He sighed. "Fine. Then get to the RV and drive to the Big Chief station off the highway. I'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

_Click._


	4. Saul's Good Man

**Chapter Four:** **Saul's Good Man**

The Big Chief filling station on the highway in the middle of nowhere currently saw two vehicles, on opposite sides of the lot from each other. The SUV on the left side had no one inside. The RV on the right had two inhabitants.

Walt paced back and forth in what little space the RV would allow for pacing. Jesse slumped in the driver's seat up front, facing the passenger side, the drawn curtain over the windshield casting a shadow across his face.

"Why did she do it?" Jesse mumbled. Elbows on knees, he hung his head and dragged his fingers through his hair. "How could she do me like this?"

"Oh, how would I know that, Jesse? As I seem to recall, I 'don't know her' like you do. You made that perfectly clear last night, didn't you?" Walt admonished.

No response.

"I swear to God…would it kill you to listen to me once in awhile? I told you she would be trouble. What could have possessed you to think trying to leave the country with her in your condition, _and_ trusting her with that money, were good ideas?"

"I loved her." Jesse's fingernails practically dug into his scalp. "I loved her more than anything."

At this, Walt stopped pacing and slowly sat down in the passenger's seat to face Jesse. What his former student saw in this devious woman—beyond a breathing bedwarmer and access to heroin—eluded him. But it wasn't as though the pain of being betrayed by a lover was a foreign concept. His own "Jane" had been Gretchen, and his "heroin" had been Elliot Schwartz. It didn't help, either, that Jesse's withdrawal symptoms could only be making his feelings on the matter even worse.

"Look." Walt reached over and rested a comforting hand on his counterpart's shoulder. "Jane didn't do this just to hurt you, do you understand? She wasn't thinking clearly. She needs help, and so do you. But for now, we have to focus on getting that money back before the police pick her—and it—up. Can you do that for me?"

After a minute or two, Jesse straightened up and pivoted to gaze directly ahead at the obscured windshield. "How are we going to find her?"

"I've already called Saul. He's sending someone over now who can help us," Walt explained. "He said this sort of thing is right up his guy's alley."

(***)

"And what was the full name, birth date and place of birth, again?" an officer asked the harried older gentleman at the police station.

"Jane Roxanne Margolis. April 4, 1982, born in Phoenix, Arizona," Donald recited. He opened his wallet and produced a photo. "This is the only picture I have with me; the rest are at her mother's."

The photo depicted Jane in her high school graduation cap and gown, triumphantly dangling the keys to the shiny new, green Pontiac Sunfire parked behind her. _I thought for sure she'd learned her lesson when we sold that car to pay for her first stay in rehab_, he recalled miserably.

The police officer typed away into a computer. "You did the right thing by getting here quickly," she assured him.

"So, you'll call as soon as you find out something?"

"Of course, sir," she affirmed. "We'll do everything we can to locate your daughter."

"Do you have…can you at least give me some idea of a timeframe?"

"I really wish I could; I understand how worried you must be," the officer apologized. "I wouldn't want to give you false hope, but do stay positive as best you can. We'll be in touch."

He nodded and slowly put his wallet away. He turned to leave, but stopped for a second and turned back.

"I don't mean to tell you how to do your job," he started. "But…if I were you, I would look into Jane's neighbor. Her…" he forced himself to spit out the last word. "…boyfriend. I'm certain he was the last to see her, but he won't tell me anything."

She repositioned her fingers at the keyboard. "And what's the boyfriend's name?"

He thought back to the first time the "new tenant" had come out to meet him and Jane on the porch, obviously expecting an introduction... It seemed like his name started with a J…

"Um…Jesse something-or-other," he ultimately turned up. "His address is in the duplex next to her. Street Number 323."

"That's definitely a start."

(***)

Not too much time passed before a dark brown sedan pulled into the Big Chief station and parked next to the RV. The man who got out was strongly built, in his late fifties, and bald. He wore very nondescript dark clothes and sunglasses, which he removed before knocking on the bullethole-ridden door of the RV.

Walt opened the door and the man stepped in. The introductions were skipped completely.

"Saul Goodman sent me," the man began in a flat voice. "Said you need someone found, expedient-like?"

Jesse nodded. "My girlf…m-my neighbor."

"Can you describe her? Picture would be better if you got one."

"Um, sure, hold on." Jesse flipped his phone open and started scanning through pictures. He hunched over, discreetly facing away from the other two men, while his thumb repeatedly pressed the 'Next' button.

A constant procession of _blip-blip-blip's _emanated from the phone. Walt and Saul's man exchanged glances.

"These…these are all kinda private…" Jesse conceded. He pinched his nose sheepishly. "I, uh, don't have any that are… you know… decent…"

"Just show me what you do have; this isn't Catholic school, son."

Reluctantly, Jesse handed over the phone. Saul's guy took it. He cocked his head, scrutinizing the image on the screen, then finally nodded once.

"Cute," he remarked in a deadpan tone.

Walt only shook his head like a disappointed father.

"Anything you can tell me about the last time you saw her?" Saul's guy asked, handing the phone back.

"This morning, at the airport. We were in the ticket line when she went outside for a smoke, then got in a cab and left. With her suitcase and…my duffle bag."

"Getting that bag back is key here, before the police find it," Walt interposed. Saul's guy nodded again, unfazed by this additional mundane stipulation.

"Any drugs in the bag? Or guns?"

Jesse shook his head dejectedly.

"$480 thousand dollars," Walt specified. "Which she is probably throwing away on heroin as we speak."

"Alright, here's what I can do," Saul's guy summarized. "You got the best chance of finding a missing person with a pulse in the first 24 hours, which means you got even less time to recover the money. I'll talk to some contacts, and Saul knows a guy in the taxi service. I'll see if I can get a handle on where the cab dropped her off—if it has already—and we'll go from here."

"What happens when she turns up?" Walt asked.

"If she turns up, pulse or no pulse, Saul will give you a call first."

"That's not gonna work," Walt objected. "I'll be in surgery this Friday, and I can hardly ask my wife to take a message."

"Have Saul call _me_," Jesse spoke up.

They both turned to him. "After what happened, I really don't think—" Walt began.

"Please, Mr. White," Jesse continued. "I got this. Like you said, I need to do what's best for both of us."

A sigh. It would be less of a hassle, Walt realized, than to await an uncertain call to his cell phone, while still keeping his family in the dark about that phone's existence. "Alright. But if you hear back while I'm still able, you call me immediately after, understand?"

A nod.

"Then I guess we're done here." Saul's guy excused himself. Before opening the door, he assured them, "Saul will be in touch." Then he took his leave.

(***)

A muggy light filtered through a filthy window into a dilapidated house. Inside, Jane lay on her back on the tattered floor, using the duffle bag as a pillow. She meekly lifted a hand to her face to block out the light, then simply decided to turn over onto her side, facing away from the window.

There she gagged, retched, and threw up right on the floor.

Meagerly, she dragged herself away from the puddle and used the wall for support as she stumbled to her feet, bringing the bag up with her. Her chest drooped as she ambled through the house. Her arms—red and blotchy with track marks—hung at her sides. While entering the next room, she stepped over her yellow suitcase, which had been opened and rummaged through, clothes strewn all over the floor.

The room was residence to a host of other near-comatose users. They sat in a circle, passing a bowl around. In the bowl smoldered some of the Blue Sky _she_ had bought on the street corner several hours ago.

She slumped into a sitting position between two of the users and reached out a hand to demand the bowl. The user to her left pulled it back away from her.

The user to her right tapped her on the shoulder and offered her a needle. She wasn't sure what was in it. In her current state, the furthest thing from her mind was where it had _been. _All that mattered to her in that moment was how it would feel.

She presented her arm, allowed the tourniquet to be tied and the needle to be injected. Then her senses flooded with rapture. Her head craned back, and she gave a spellbound laugh. For now, nothing else mattered.


	5. Conflicted

**Chapter Five: Conflicted**

"Y'know, I was thinking about getting a cat."

"…Word up, Badger. That's…that's real cool, man..." Jesse mumbled disinterestedly.

Going back to the apartment was out of the question, since the landlord was sure to be telling the cops all about the tweaked out resident kidnapping his poor, innocent daughter. Mr. White had gone home to be with his family, and sitting alone in an RV for hours waiting to hear word from Saul hadn't helped Jesse's nerves. Good thing Badger had just gotten settled back in from his hideaway in Fresno, and was down to hang out. So now, Jesse found himself alongside Skinny Pete in Badger's living room, listening to what their host considered a valid argument for his choice of pet.

"I mean, dogs get all the cred as man's best friend, but you can always count on a cat to just be loyal and not judge you, dude," Badger continued. "Richer or poorer, a lap's still a lap in a cat's eyes, y'know."

"But dogs are better for hunting and protection. You ever see a cave painting of, like, a Neanderthal with a cat?" Skinny Pete posed.

"Evolution, brother. It's all about evolution."

Jesse paid little attention to the discussion. Instead, he sat focused on the nearest clock.

"How does 'Sneakers' sound? That's a good cat name," Badger rambled on.

Twenty-four hours. Saul's guy said that was how long they still had a good chance of finding her alive. Jesse watched the minute hand creep along its circular path on the clock. So far, it had been nine hours since Jane ran out on him.

Nine hours ago, she stole his whole livelihood and left him high and dry, with nothing.

Badger again. "Because some cats have four white paws, like shoes or whatever, and they like to 'sneak' around, catching mice and stuff, so…"

Did she never love him at all? Those times he cooked a fancy breakfast of huevos rancheros for her, sat through that snooze-fest of an art museum for her…was all that worth less than jack shit to her?

"Hey dude, you still worrying about that girl?" Skinny Pete asked. He may not have much to say most the time, but he had an eye for what was going on. "Chillax; I'm sure she'll turn up."

"Thanks." Jesse sighed and turned away from the clock, back to his friends. He wondered, what would happen when she _did_ turn up? Were they supposed to pretend this never happened? Go back to being a regular, happy couple?

"Here, why don't you burn one? Get your mind clear?" Skinny Pete offered him a joint. He and Badger were lighting up from the latter's stash. Jesse was pretty sure even his twelve-year-old brother Jake's skunkweed was better.

"You guys go ahead; I gotta wait for this phone call," he declined.

"Whatever you say, man."

The room began to fill with that distinct scent. The three chatted for a bit. Another glance at the clock confirmed it had now been ten hours. How could an hour have passed already, when Jesse wasn't even high?

"You know what, Jess? Screw her," Badger spoke up suddenly. "There are plenty of ladies out there. Guy like you, prospects like you got, no reason you gotta settle for some bitch with no respect for you."

This comment might have earned Badger a black eye yesterday. But now, Jesse was just a bit too preoccupied with the possibility that he might be right. When his parents kicked him out of the very house he'd stayed in by his aunt's side during her final days, that was screwing him over big time. He never thought anyone could top that, least of all Jane. But what she did, promising him a picture-perfect future together and then robbing him blind…that was utter fucking _betrayal._

"Yeah, I…I could give a crap what happens to her," he heard himself say. "I just wanna get back what she took, is all."

She didn't respect him. She didn't love him. He was just the chump next door she played and then left in the dust. Well, that's not how Jesse Pinkman rolled, yo.

"Whatever happens to her, she deserves it," he added bitterly.

"That's kinda harsh, isn't it, bro?" Skinny Pete put forward. "I know she done you wrong and all, but a pretty lady like that, wandering the streets alone looking for a fix, with cheddar in tow like you're sayin'? She could seriously attract all kinds of trouble."

Jesse looked at him. "Trouble?"

"You know what I'm sayin'. You've dealt on the street—you know what types are out there."

Jesse froze. He hadn't thought of that. Every time they shot up together before was in the safety of his home, in the comfort of his bed. Now Jane was on the street trying to score, maybe in the company of Combo's murderers, or of more scumbags like Spooge and his skank.

And with that money, too.

"But, it's cool, and all. She probably knows how to handle herself," Skinny Pete added quickly.

Jane didn't know about the money until two days ago, Jesse realized. She was smart enough to figure out his occupation on her own, but she had no idea he was bringing in _that_ kind of coinage. That must mean everything between them until then was real. Her hand reaching for his, waiting for the satellite to come on. The two of them "testing out" his new king size mattress before it was even out of the plastic wrap. Apology Girl. With all that, she must have cared. She had to.

Badger and Skinny Pete had apparently ordered pizza within the last hour, and they now they gathered around the pizza box, with some VH1 special playing on TV. Twelve hours, the clock announced. Half the time Jane had left was up.

She didn't do this simply to break his heart; she just needed help, like Mr. White said. And until Jesse got that call, he couldn't do a damn thing to help her.

The clock ticked on. Badger and Skinny Pete were involved in some existential conversation that probably sounded way more cosmic to them, thanks to the pot. Jesse would have killed for a drag of even Badger's piss poor weed; it had been over two days by now since he last used. But he had to stay sober, for when Saul finally rang.

After that, he could get his money back, or whatever was left of it, and he could get Jane the help she needed. Then he could decide whether or not he ever wanted to speak to her again.

Eighteen hours. Shit! He must have dozed off in his chair. Hurriedly, he checked his phone for missed calls. Nothing.

Skinny Pete was crashed on the futon. Badger must have gone to bed. Only six hours left.

Where was Jane now? Jesse's mind raced with possibilities, none of them particularly favorable. She could have lost the money, or had it stolen. She could be alone, scared and hungry.

His stomach growled. Badger and Skinny Pete's pizza box still sat in the middle of the floor. Nothing left in it but crusts. So, he got up and headed to the kitchen. There was a box of Lucky Charms on top of the fridge. Jesse figured Badger wouldn't mind. He poured a bowl and opened the top drawer for a spoon. It turned out to be the cutlery drawer.

He pictured Jane getting mugged at knifepoint by a crooked dealer. He squeezed his eyes shut to force the image away. In its place, he saw her shooting up who knows what in an alley with a bunch of no-account junkies. Meth heads who would just as soon make off with the money while she was passed out. They sure as shit wouldn't care if she OD'd or something.

And that bag she was toting around wouldn't be the only thing about her to catch their interest. He flinched and tried to disregard the cringe-worthy visual of a strung-out Jane pinned down against her will, under some horny, disgusting lookalike of Spooge with a head still on.

He mentally dropped an ATM on the hypothetical son of a bitch for good measure. Then he found a spoon and started to eat.

It was early in the morning by this point. Knowing Badger and Skinny Pete, they wouldn't be up for several more hours. He tried to watch TV. CSI was on. Not helpful.

_On this week's episode, an unidentified black-haired woman in her mid-20's is found strangled to death in a downtown Albuquerque parking lot. Law enforcement officials suspect drug usage and foul play. Stay tuned! _Jesse imagined.

Twenty-one hours. About this time yesterday, they were packing for the airport without a care in the world. Only three hours to go. He wrenched his hands together tightly.

Somewhere, a cop could be knocking on Donald Margolis' door with bad news. A pair of bare feet could be sticking out of a morgue drawer, with "Margolis, J" written on a tag around the big toe.

One hour left.

_Oh Jane, please hold on! _Jesse pleaded silently, eyes penetrating the face of the clock, hand firmly grasping his cell phone. _I'll be right there. Soon as I know where you are, I'll come and get you…I'll pick you up and carry you away from anyone or thing that's hurting you. I don't care if you don't love me anymore. I'll look out for you because I still love you. Just please be alright. Please._

The twenty-four hour mark was reached. Twenty-four hours and one minute. The phone remained unresponsive.

Finally, Jesse took his gaze off the clock and to the table. Badger's pot beckoned. A deep sigh, then he rolled up a joint and lit it.

(***)

Late that morning, an inconspicuous brown Lincoln parked across a chain link fence from a run down old house. The driver got behind the wheel and sent a quick text message before driving away.

(***)

Inside Saul's grandiose office, the lawyer busied himself sampling a variety of imported colognes, the multicolored crystalline bottles stacked in a row across his desk. He would spritz a little on his sleeve, smell it, assess it, then move on to the next.

_Spritz, sniff. _"Too subtle." _Spritz, sniff. "_Too garish."_ Spritz, sniff. _ "Whoever told the Vietnamese they have a stake in the cologne market?" he mused.

The cell phone on his desk chirped out the Nokia default ringtone just once. Saul set down the substandard bottle of Vietnamese cologne to check the incoming text message.

"We got her," it said.

(***)

The ringing phone startled Jesse, making him cough up the pot smoke in his lungs. Trying to regain his breath, he answered. "Ye—_cough_—yeah?"

"Guess who just saved your collective asses?" the glib voice of Saul Goodman boasted through the phone.

Jesse sat up straight and put the blunt out. "Your guy found her?! Where is she, is she alright?"

"Yeah, it turns out some cab driver dropped her off downtown yesterday morning."

"Okay, listen…" Jesse cut in.

"Apparently she was real harpy the whole ride from the airport—" Saul remarked.

"I don't care about that, okay? Have your guy pick—"

"Hey, just on that topic, you weren't planning on skipping town without telling ol' Saul, were you?"

"Saul. Just shut—"

"Because you should know what airport security is like these days, especially for someone in _your_ situation. If you'd talked to me, I could have hooked you up with—"

"Yo, Saul! Shut up and give me the address."

There was a pause. "Okay look, Pinkman, cards on the table. My sources, who shall remain nameless, are saying that this dame you're looking for may have gone on a little spending spree for some…well, let's just call them 'pharmaceuticals.' After she got herself good and 'medicated,' she stumbled into this charming little den full of like-minded individuals down on Cornell Drive. As far as I know, that's where she is now."

_The money_, he could just imagine Mr. White reminding him. "Does, um…does she still have the money?"

"Let me put it to you this way. If there's any left, you're gonna want to high-tail it before her new suitemates start helping themselves to her generous 'charity.' And might I venture some humble advice, kid?"

A flat "What?"

"Your taste in women needs adjusting. Take it from the guy who's been through his share of divorces: Once a gold-digger, always a gold-digger. Just something to keep in mind."

_Click._


	6. My Word Is My Bond

**Chapter Six: My Word Is My Bond**

Jesse sat in the front seat of the Lincoln alongside Saul's guy. Walt sat in the back, looking out the window at the ramshackle den his partner's urgent call had directed them to.

"I don't recommend it," Saul's guy warned. "APD's been known to sit on this place, keep an eye on the comings and goings."

"Are they here now?" Walt asked.

"Came by this morning; part of why it took longer than I expected to track her down," he explained. "Police could be the least of it. You could just get mugged or shot. Why don't you both wait out here? Let me handle this."

Before Jesse could respond, Walt got out of the backseat, moved to the passenger window and motioned for him to roll it down.

"You shouldn't go in there," he advised.

"Screw that, I'm coming with you." Jesse reached for the door handle.

"You're still not sober. I can smell that marijuana."

"Hey, it's not mine, it was Badger's. I was just there in the room, alright?" came the oldest excuse ever.

"Jesse, this place will be full of addicts."

"What do you think I'm gonna do? Shoot up and pass out in between her and the money?" He opened the door and pushed his way out. "I said I'm coming in. I'm not gonna argue about it; she needs me _now_."

Walt sighed and shut the door behind him. They both proceeded through an opening in the chain link fence onto the derelict property.

A vacant-eyed inhabitant met them at the door, gazing as if he couldn't register them as holding, a threat, or cops. Walt simply pushed past him, Jesse inched around him, and he just watched the two proceed with an uncomprehending stare.

The house's floors were cluttered, its walls plastered with graffiti. Further search confirmed that every square inch of the first room was crawling with denizens like the one at the door. They paid little mind to their visitors as they burned their lives away shooting up, staring off into space in a drugged stupor, or entangling with each other. Truth be told, they weren't the only reason Walt had wanted Jesse to stay outside.

"Holy shit, man," Jesse observed under his breath. "These could be _our _customers."

_That_ was the other reason.

"Stay focused," Walt ordered quietly. "Don't make eye contact with any of them. We don't want any trouble here."

"We do this to people. _Our product_ does this, Mr. White."

"Our product is the best in the Southwest. In all of the United States," Walt insisted. "Forget about these people; they're not our problem."

Letting Jesse come inside was a grossly inefficient mistake. By himself, Walt could have just got in, got the bag, and got out. With as much money as Jesse's junkie girlfriend had taken, with as much heroin as she could have streaming in her veins, well…that issue very well could have sorted itself out by now. Having Jesse here in his emotional state just complicated the matter. Especially if they were too late for her.

Jesse knelt down over an open, ransacked yellow suitcase and pick up a short gray dress he obviously recognized. His eyes closed as he held it against his face.

"She must be in here somewhere," Walt stated, if only to keep his partner on track. There was no time for this sentimentality. "Check the next room."

"Right…" Jesse complied, dropping the dress back in the pilfered suitcase and proceeding through the next doorway, Walt close behind.

The following room was lined along the walls with sofas and old mattresses that must have been salvaged from dumpsters and street curbs. Upon each of them were two, three, even four occupants in varying states of unconsciousness. The way some of them were arranged on their bedding made them difficult to identify at a glance, and Walt didn't relish the idea of inspecting each of them one by one. Instead, he scanned the room for a brown duffle bag.

Luckily, he wouldn't have long to search.

"Jane!" Jesse breathed, and immediately rushed towards a threadbare loveseat across the room. A hand adorned in familiar bracelets hung over the edge of the armrest, from underneath an unconscious male figure covered in tribal tattoos. Jesse pulled the tattooed man onto the floor—with no small measure of scorn—to reach the figure underneath.

It was Jane, and she was out cold.

Jesse shook her by the shoulders gently. "Jane, c'mon. Wake up, baby. C'mon, wake up," he coaxed.

In the meantime, Walt looked around for any sign of the money. Not on the loveseat. Not behind it. Nobody else in the room appeared to have it.

"Jane. Jane!"

While Jesse continued to try to rouse Jane, Walt noticed a lever on the side of the loveseat. A recliner. He triggered the lever, releasing the footrest. He squatted down to check under the loveseat.

The sudden jolt in the mechanisms under the seat must have helped to bring Jane around. Her eyes squeezed shut tighter, then opened slightly. She gave a glazed, listless look at her rescuer, then closed her eyes again.

It was amazing the lengths a junkie could go to just to get a fix. Walt found the duffle bag, considerably lighter and rolled up, expertly hidden between the bottom of the cushion and the inside gears of the footrest.

Meanwhile, Jesse lifted Jane into a sitting position and cradled her in his arms, rocking back and forth. "It's alright, I'm here. I got you. It'll be okay," he assured her in a whisper.

While pulling the bag free and checking to see how much money was left, it was all Walt could do not to shake his head. Had Jesse forgotten that it was because of this woman's treachery they were in this predicament in the first place? Next thing you know, he'd be starting to—

Jesse sniffled loudly. "You'll be fine, sweetie. I'll get you out of here and take you someplace safe." His voice was muffled as he buried his face in her shoulder and rubbed her back. "You'll be just fine."

Of course. How like him. Walt unzipped the bag to estimate the contents. Though he wasn't about to take it out and count it in these surroundings, it looked like at least half was gone. Even she couldn't have spent a quarter of a million dollars in just one day, so where was the rest?

The pilfered suitcase in the doorway. Walt closed the duffle bag and went to examine the mess. The suitcase had been packed pretty tight. (_New Zealand_, he recalled with a huff._ What a joke._) The clothes were now scattered all over the floor…but he doubted that's what the other junkies in the house had been looking for. He noticed one pair of jeans still folded in the suitcase, with a definite lump in the side pocket. He reached inside to find an ounce of Blue Sky.

So, she must have hidden her reserve in the couch, and tried to hide some spending money along with her purchases in the suitcase. A lot of good that did her.

Walt put the meth in the duffle bag, and while repacking the suitcase he checked every garment to see if there was any money or drugs left. Junkies, it turned out, were fairly thorough thieves.

"Can you hear me, Jane?" he heard Jesse asking in the back of the room.

"Don't bother. She wouldn't know you from Nikola Tesla in her current condition," Walt remarked.

"Who?"

"Forget it. Just pick her up. Let's go."

Before too much longer, they found themselves standing outside the death trap. Walt carried the duffle bag, Jesse carried Jane and her suitcase.

"Well…thank God we got here when we did. Things could have turned out much worse," Walt stated in a detached way. "Now all that's left is to get both of you clean. I'm sure after an experience like this, she'll agree once she comes around. Don't you think?"

Jesse was busy searching Jane's belongings for something.

"Needless to say, I think it's best that I continue holding onto your share in the meantime. Or what's left, that is," Walt continued. "If she's smart, she won't threaten us with going to the police again. Enough people have seen her with the bag by now. The cab driver, surely some dealers. Technically, she could be considered an accomplice, and just as culpable as you or me."

He looked Jesse in the eye, hoping he was getting the hint.

"So, it would be in our mutual best interest if I keep—"

"Whatever, Mr. White, just take it. It's fine."

Walt paused. "…Alright, then. I'm glad you can see my reasoning."

Jesse found what he was looking for: Jane's phone. There were several missed calls and two voicemails on it. "Do you mind going on ahead? There's something I gotta do here."

"And what might that be?"

Jesse didn't reply. He simply found a number under "D" in Jane's contacts, and dialed. It barely rang once before there was an answer.

"Jane?!" A definite hopeful tone echoed in the voice at the other end of the line.

"Yo, Mr. Margolis, this…no, this is Jesse."

"Jesse? Why in God's name do you have my daughter's phone?" the older man demanded.

"I gave my word. When I saw her, you'd be the first to know."

(***)

Donald soared well over the speed limit as he drove through the bad part of town, screeching to a halt in front of the revolting dive described to him in the phone call.

A crackhouse. Of all places for his Jane to turn up…a godforsaken den full of drug-addicted street trash. Getting out of the driver's side, he had a good mind to throttle Jesse on the spot and insist to know if he had been the one to introduce her to this place to begin with. How else would he have just happened to run into her there?

He approached the front stoop, and those intentions all dissipated when he saw the two of them.

Jesse sat on the front step, the yellow suitcase beside him. Jane was strewn, unconscious, over his lap, and he was absentmindedly stroking her arm. Without a word, he cast a pleading gaze up to her father, like an orphaned waif.

Donald jogged forward to the pair. From the sight of Jane, she didn't need just a stern talking-to and a stay in rehab. First she needed a hospital.

Without a word, he knelt down to scoop his daughter up. Jesse stood to help, and Donald made no objection. Together, they transported her to the car and laid her down in the backseat. Jesse, in turn, tucked her suitcase in place in the floorboards. Donald walked around to the driver's side and got in.

He hesitated for a moment, then conceded and stretched across the car to open the passenger door. Jesse, though initially surprised by the gesture, accepted the invitation and climbed in. They rolled away.


	7. Who's You And Me?

**Chapter Seven: Who's You And Me?**

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry," Jane's voice whimpered inside her hospital room.

"I am too, honey, but I can't tell you how my heart sank, seeing you in that dump. I never thought the day would come that we'd have to go through this again," Donald replied in a soft but stern tone. "I don't know what you and Jesse were trying to pull, but if he hadn't called me, I could be talking to a coroner now instead of you."

"Jesse had nothing to do with it," she lied. "We flushed the drugs after you nearly called the cops. I packed my suitcase. I was _going_ to go to rehab in the morning. But when I was waiting for you, I just got weak. I thought…if I could get just one last hit…then…"

Jesse sat in the waiting area outside Jane's room. He pretended to read _Sports Illustrated_—the least effeminate magazine he could find—while actually trying to hear Jane behind the closed door. To hear her voice was comforting. Even more of a relief was her cover story for their travel plans. One less thing for him to explain away.

"You knew best. I was stupid. I should have just gone to rehab like you wanted. I didn't mean for it to get so out of control," she sobbed.

"Tears might have worked on me two days ago, Jane, but they won't work now," Donald insisted. "As for rehab, you better believe that's the next stop after we're out of here."

"I know, but—"

"Let me finish," he continued, trying hard not to raise his voice. "Once you're sober, there will be some changes. You will be looking for a respectable job. No more sleazy tattoo parlors full of bad influences. And about managing the duplex…"

Donald's voice lowered, giving Jesse an unwelcome feeling he might be out of another home soon. He casually flipped through the magazine pages, devising in his head how to plead his case to his landlord. If he were allowed to stay, he would pay his rent with a money order, all nice and official, at the first of each month; not with cash at the tail end of the five-day grace period. He'd replace the back door, and keep the water bill as low as possible. And above all, he'd never, _ever _let this happen to Jane again.

Eventually the door opened, and Donald emerged. Clearly he hadn't slept much the previous night either, for he ambled forward wearily and sat beside Jesse, who waited in uncertainty for the next words out of his mouth.

"Do you care to get a Diet from the soda machine, while I wait here for the test results?" Donald pulled out his wallet and dug for a few dollars. "You can have one, too, if you want."

Jesse glanced at the door to Jane's room. Much as he was aching to see her, he judged it best to stay on Donald's good side for the time being. "Uh, sure, no problem…Mr. Margolis." He reached for the money, until a photo in the billfold caught his eye: Jane in cap and gown, with a new car behind her. "Hey, is that her high school graduation?"

Donald nodded. "Hard to believe her twenty-seventh birthday is next month. Guess I'll always see that stubborn, free-spirited teenager when I look at her. I can't help it…you never stop being a parent, no matter how grown they are."

"Right on," Jesse affirmed. "I figure that's how my folks saw me too, until they…" he trailed off. His falling out with his parents wasn't quite the impression he wanted to give here. "…At least she's got you looking out for her, no matter what," he finished.

When there was no response, he headed on down the hall to the vending machine. Returning a few minutes later, bearing one Diet Coke and one Barq's root beer, he found Donald again in the room. A doctor's voice spouted off some medical terms Jesse couldn't catch even if he listened by the door. So, he sat down to drink his Barq's, waiting apprehensively to hear that he'd be sleeping on the RV floor again tonight, or that Jane was seriously sick. Or both.

By the time the bottle was half empty, the doctor exited and proceeded to the next patient. Donald came out, and Jesse stood up to meet him. "So? What'd the whitecoat have to say?"

"Everything came back negative, thank Heavens. They say she was very, _very _lucky not to catch anything from shared needles—a point the doctor and I both made sure to get through to her. There will be a little more monitoring just in case, and they prescribed an antibiotic cream for the open wounds on her arms, but all in all they expect her to recover normally."

Jesse reared back as he exhaled a prolonged breath of relief. "Wow, that's…that's good, right?"

"Yes, that's good."

"Yeah!" He fist-pumped. "I knew she'd pull through! …Oh yeah, here." He extended the Diet Coke forward.

Donald took it. "Listen, this isn't easy to say. Whatever might have happened before, it doesn't change the fact that without you, things could have ended much worse for her. So, thank you."

"Well, I was totally serious, what I said when you were heading towards the cops."

"Right, about that," Donald continued. "I still have to call off the police search, and although it crossed my mind, I won't press charges, or evict you. But, this is all on one condition."

Jesse's voice flattened. "I can't see her anymore, right?"

Donald chuckled. "Jesse, I've been her father long enough to know how well _that_ works," he joked grimly. "No, all I'm asking is that you do whatever it takes to make sure this incident doesn't repeat itself. Go to rehab with her. Make sure she attends the meetings if you have to drag her kicking and screaming. Just don't let her relapse like this again, because next time she may not be so lucky."

"Oh! I mean, of course! That's a deal, Man. We…we got a solid deal." He outstretched his hand for a shake, to which Donald complied.

A second passed. Jesse hesitated.

"Is…it…okay if I…?"

"Go ahead," Donald permitted. "I've got to go fill this prescription, and she was asking for you just now, anyway."

Jesse let go and hurried into Jane's room, unsure if he'd just awakened from a nightmare or slipped into a really good dream.

(***)

Walt caught a glimpse of Marie behind the camera, gesturing at him to smile—a feat made easier when he envisioned a giant purple sock crammed in her mouth. The charity site with its incessant chiming had been grating enough. It had been bothersome when Marie took it upon herself to have a newspaper story published on his behalf, but at least in print he had the option of ignoring it. But now, the TV special. With the camera light flickering and the lens zoomed in on his face, Walt felt a sudden solidarity with wounded animals trotted around on film for SPCA ads.

"He's a good man, isn't he?" the superficially sympathetic reporter asked Walter Jr., who sat beside his father in the center of the couch. Walt struggled not to laugh out loud. _In the same way _Al Capone_ was a good man_, he wanted to jeer.

"Absolutely. Ask anyone. Anybody. He's a great father, a great teacher. He knows, like, everything there is to know about chemistry," Walter Jr. boasted.

At that, Walt found himself reaching over to pat his son's head. In spite of everything, with his surgery date looming, the thing he took solace in most was knowing that his family regarded him so highly. He wouldn't stand for their final memories of him consisting of a crippled old man, barely clinging to life by an array of tubes.

"He's patient with you," the teen went on. "He's always there for you. He's just decent. And he always does the right thing. And that's how he teaches me to be."

To hear Walter Jr. honor him so—when just days ago the stubborn kid refused to even use his birth name—almost made everything he'd suffered since his fiftieth birthday worth it. Despite the web of lies, the constant peril, and the aggravation right down to the incident in the drug den earlier today, it had all been a welcome sacrifice to secure his family's future. Hearing Junior's praises, Walt would have been assured enough to ease his doubts about the surgery.

"Would you say he's your hero?" the reporter asked.

He _would have _been, that is, if not for two lingering loose ends. First, he was still short of his $737K goal. The estimated half million he already earned would cover some expenses, but he could not rest until his family wanted for _nothing. _Junior and Holly should not face decades of debt after college. Skyler should be free to pursue her dream of writing, untethered by a mundane job crunching numbers at some accounting firm. No matter what the outcome of the surgery, or the cancer, his legacy must remain with the White household the rest of their lives.

The second loose end bore the name Jesse Pinkman. A former, subpar student whose homework Walt once marked with the warning, "Ridiculous! Apply yourself!" Now an unmotivated addict, even less likely to live to see fifty-one than Walt was. To this day, he still hadn't followed that advice in red marker on his chemistry worksheet.

Any other student, once their graduation cap was flung off and they were out the door of the J.P. Wynne gymnasium, their future was in their own hands. But Jesse…after all they'd been thrust into together since their rocky partnership was formed, Walt couldn't leave him behind without one last push in the right direction. He had to be able to say he tried.

"Oh, yeah. Yes Ma'am. Totally. My dad is my hero," Junior affirmed proudly to the reporter's loaded question.

_Not if I fail you all,_ Walt thought.

(***)

"Hey," Jane greeted. She lay in bed, top section inclined as far as it would go to prop her up in a sitting position. There was already a healthier color in her complexion, and she looked mercifully closer to life than death now than she did in that crackhouse.

"Hey. How you feeling?" Jesse closed the door behind him and stepped forward, ready to hold her tight and accept all her upcoming apologies. He'd tell her as long as she was safe, he didn't give a damn about the money lost. Then he'd take her hands in his—down on one knee if necessary—and promise that together they'd get clean (for _real_ this time) and that he'd be right here for her through it all. This was the last time he would come so close to losing her. He'd confess once and for all how much he—

"I'm good. Can you hand me that remote?" she asked.

"Huh?"

Jane pointed to a remote control on a chair across the room from her. Jesse blinked dubiously, then shambled over to get it and bring it to his girlfriend's bedside.

"What do you feel like watching? Sit down; let's see what channels they have here." She focused on the TV across from her and reached out to her side for the remote.

"Whoa. Hold up." He held it back. "That's it? That's all you gotta say?"

She tilted her head at him and quirked an eyebrow. "Well, what do you want to hear?"

"Oh, I dunno. How about, _'Sorry I jacked all your shit and left you for dead in the middle of an airport_?"

She scoffed. "Do you hear yourself? _'Left you for dead.'_ You're overreacting a bit, don't you think?"

"Yo, I was up all night worried sick about you, Jane! Do you have any idea what all I thought could be happening to you?"

"Jesse, just stop it. I already got enough of this from Dad. Now can we please drop the subject and see what's on?"

He stared in disbelief at her, mouth agape. "You gotta be kidding me with this." He gave a disparaging laugh. "How can you sit there and act like nothing happened?"

"Believe me, this is nothing; I've been in way worse trouble before," Jane stated. "You should have seen the first time I got shipped off to rehab. Dad even sold my car just to prove a point."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? You sound like you don't even care what you put me though!" Jesse pressed his palm into his forehead and started to pace the floor.

"Will you calm down? It was one last fix. That's it. I thought you of all people would understand," she appealed.

"What I understand is that you stole my money and spent like half of it on dope, after we swore we were gonna get clean!" He found himself trying not to yell. "We were this close to getting out of here…to having a clean slate all the way in New Zealand. Isn't that what you said on the way to the airport? A clean slate."

"Okay. Here's the thing." Her tone went cold, just like in her phone confrontation with Mr. White. "First of all, if it wasn't for me, you'd still be jumping hoops for your _old_ partner to get that money. So, if we're being honest, saying I stole it is pretty stingy of you."

Jesse couldn't look up at her. The voice he was so glad to hear moments ago now launched callous words like stones at his chest, and he felt all of their impact.

"Second…wake up, Jesse," she went on. "Did you really think we we'd get through airport security with that bag? And without passports? New Zealand was a stupid idea we dreamed up between speedballs. It was never going to happen. Deal with it."

He stopped pacing in the middle of the floor and shook his head in his hand. "Jesus. I don't believe this," he mumbled. "Saul and Badger were right about you."

"Okay…?" Her voice became tinny with annoyance. "…Who's _Badger_?"

He flung the remote at the bed by her feet. Without a side glace, he stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

Her eyes rolled to the top of her head as she shook it brazenly. She retrieved the remote and settled in to watch TV. Last chance for some alone time before the inevitable return to rehab.


	8. Loose Ends Tied

**Chapter Eight: Loose Ends Tied**

The next morning saw Walt out and about again. The clamor of hip-hop music assaulted his ears from half a block away. He didn't need two guesses as to where it was coming from. He parked on the street in front of the duplex, disembarked and pounded on Jesse's door over the racket within. It was uncertain at first whether he'd been heard.

The music cut off abruptly, and the lone occupant emerged, a full kitchen trash bag in hand. He wore a beanie cap, the gaudiest graphic hoodie ever sold in an urban outfitter, and a tee featuring some band logo or another. His eyes were red and puffy.

_Using again already? _Walt opened his mouth to chastise him.

"What's up, Mr. White? Wasn't expecting you," Jesse said, trying to hide the nasal, congested voice of someone who had just been crying his soul out.

Walt shut his mouth, pacified by this. He pointed instead to the garbage bag. "What's that?" he asked.

"Her stuff."

The bag hit Jane's door like an overflowing dumpster.

Walt drifted his eyes from the bag back to Jesse dusting off his hands. "I take it she's not here?"

"Nope." He wiped his nose on his sleeve and continued indifferently. "Still at the hospital since yesterday. Then, after that, rehab for six weeks. I got the place all to myself. Pretty sweet, huh?"

"Well, you might still want to keep that racket down, regardless," Walt cautioned. "Other people live on this street. You're one disturbance call away from landing yourself back in trouble."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, you know the best part about no girlfriend and no manager? No _rules_." Jesse stepped backwards into his apartment, arms outstretched with a transparent smile. "This pad…has no rules. Anything goes now. I was just about to call Badger and Skinny Pete—the three of us'll be blowing the roof off this joint. And who's gonna be here to complain? Here's a hint: the correct answer is _nobody, that's who_."

Walt saw through the apathy like glass. "Jesse…"

He was cut off by the reprise of the blaring hip hop video on the TV screen. Jesse retreated into the kitchenette and opened the fridge, coming back to the living room with a beer bottle. He sat down and popped the lid off.

Walt killed the so-called music again. "Not to dampen your newfound refuge in anarchy, but you should still be going to rehab, too."

"Why?"

"_'Why?' _Didn't you learn anything from all this? Because, all those downtrodden people we saw in that den? You could end up like any one of them. You could have ended up like Jane."

"But I _didn't._"

"Not yet. But you've come this far. You wouldn't want to threaten her sobriety when she comes back. Not again," Walt advised, sagely. "Don't you think you owe it to her to get sober with her?"

Jesse slammed the bottle down. "Bullshit. I don't owe her jack. I got her out of that den. I saved her life. And you should have heard the things she said at the hospital. It was like she didn't even care all I did for her."

The façade of indifference was cracking, and Walt continued to chisel away. "I'm sorry," he condoled paternally. "But, you know, these things happen for a reason."

Jesse's nostril's flared. "Yeah, because she's a cold…stone-hearted…bitch…!"

With each word, the sentence became visibly more difficult to complete. Finally, he stood with a jerk and retreated to the kitchen bar, where he laid his head down on his folded arms.

"What did I do wrong, Mr. White?" he croaked.

"What?"

"I must have done something wrong to her. What did I do? We were fine before I flushed the stash. Was that it? Was that what pushed her away from me?"

"You _weren't _fine before," the old teacher insisted. "Getting rid of those drugs, first and foremost, was the right thing to do; don't doubt yourself about that."

He moved to Jesse's side, pulled forth a kitchen stool and sat beside him.

"You didn't do anything wrong to her, Jesse. Waiting all night for that message? Confronting your own addiction to save her from that house? Calling her father for help? Even _I'm _impressed with the responsibility you showed," he embellished.

Jesse looked up a little. "Really?"

"If anything, you were _too _good to her. Too caught up seeing to her wellbeing, when her only thanks was to cast you off. You deserve better than that. You need to get back to looking after your _own _wellbeing."

A sigh. "But, I'd have to see her every day if I went to rehab. I just don't know if that's gonna help anything."

"No one said you both had to go to the same facility. And besides, what if she's receiving an outpatient treatment?" Walt posed.

A quizzical look.

"That's when a patient goes to an office during the day to be treated, just like a regular checkup, then goes home," Walt explained, to which Jesse's face fell. "She could be back here every night anyway," Walt added. "So, maybe it would do you some good to be away for awhile. Give you both some space."

Jesse pondered this.

_That should do the trick._

**(***)**

Jesse peered out the passenger window of Walt's SUV at the rehab facility he had just been transported to.

"So, you remembered to pay your rent in advance? You have everything you need?" Walt prodded.

"Yeah."

The facility consisted of several orange, dome-shaped buildings, surrounded by gardens. A quartz sign before the front office labeled the establishment "Serenity."

"This place looks like some kinda Middle Earth hippie village," Jesse griped, slouching further in his seat.

"I checked online; it has the highest rating in town," Walt assured him. "You'll be in good hands here."

Jesse tugged at his seatbelt, but didn't unfasten it just yet.

"Just so you know, I won't be back for awhile," Walt informed his passenger. "I'm gonna have my surgery on Friday. I'm hopeful it'll go well." A pause. "But if not, Saul will take care of things. He's got your money; he's keeping it for you."

Jesse nodded, then turned back from the window to Walt. "By the way," he spoke up. "I'm sorry about all the stuff that went down. Letting her pull that blackmail stunt, and not listening when you tried to warn me about her. You were just trying to watch my back. I shoulda seen that."

"Lingering on things doesn't help. Believe me," Walt imparted. "Just try and focus on getting better."

Jesse finally released his seatbelt. "See you when I'm out?"

"Let's hope so," Walt replied.

Jesse's hand hovered over the car door. "These doctors totally know what they're doing, yo," he offered as encouragement. "The only reason my aunt didn't make it is because they didn't catch it in time. But this time, no reason everything shouldn't…you know…"

"I know," Walt acknowledged. "And thank you."

The door finally opened, and Jesse exited to check in to Serenity.

**(***)**

Friday—the surgery date—arrived. Walt was prepped with Skyler and Junior at his side.

"Where's your phone?"

"Hm?"

Walt barely registered Skyler's question as he lay in the hospital bed, slowly being spirited away by the anesthesia. There was little that could trouble him now. He had done right by Jesse. He'd managed to push him in the right direction, at not too high a cost. And although he still lacked his target $737 thousand, his wife and son were here. They'd be waiting for him when he awoke, and he'd be looking for them.

"Your cell phone. Did you bring it?" Skyler asked somewhere in the hazy room.

His eyes succumbed to their heavy burden. He was all but asleep.

"Which one?"

**(***)**

One day, five weeks later, the monotony of Donald's morning commute to work was disrupted when his cell rang. He didn't recognize the number, but pressed Receive all the same.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Jane," he acknowledged. He turned down the chatter of drive-time radio DJs and tuned out the whir of passing cars. After over a month of no news from his daughter, he was anxious to hear all about her progress.

"How're you?" Jane asked.

"Fine. The usual," Donald hand-waved. "Everything going alright? How's rehab?"

"It's doing its job," she mused. "Gotta say I liked Serenity better, though. Here, the nurses took my phone at check-in, and they only let me use the pay phone for five minute calls."

Her father smiled. "Well, glad to know you would use that privilege on me once in awhile."

The sound of her throat clearing wafted through the receiver, then she relayed the information he was most looking forward to. "I just wanted to check in, let you know I'm doing a lot better."

"Good. I'm happy to hear it," he commended earnestly.

"I had trouble eating the first week. Everything made me sick, and I know it wasn't just because the cafeteria food sucked," she recalled. "The depression was pretty bad this time, but at least they let me keep my sketchbook." A single chuckle. "Filled the whole thing with designs that'd be right at home on an emo kid's backside."

"I still would feel better if you looked for another job," Donald reminded her. "But, it's nice to hear you're in good hands."

"They're _obnoxiously _accepting here," she remarked. "Every day, it's 'You are more than your past mistakes,' and 'Today is the first day of the rest of your life.' Might as well save the copay and raid a motivational poster store, huh?"

She laughed, and to her relief, so did he. A moment's silence followed after the laughter subsided.

"So," she continued. "I'm supposed to check out next Saturday at noon. Are you picking me up?"

"I always did before, didn't I?" he affirmed. "I'll take you out to lunch. Surely you've had your fill of that cafeteria food."

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Another pause.

"Anyway, Jane, I'm almost at work. Thanks for calling; I'll see you next week," Donald concluded.

"Okay. …Love you, Dad."

"Love you too, sweetheart."

As he parked in front of air traffic control, he didn't even mind the _click _in lieu of a good-bye. He went in to work, for once unburdened.

**(***)**

Walt underwent surgery. He recovered from surgery. And now he sulked alone in the backyard.

_"Whatever it is, I don't want to know,"_ Skyler had declared, driving away, leaving Walt to ruminate on the latest outbreak of events. He slouched by the pool and stared off into space, unconcerned with his surroundings…least of all the two airplanes sailing overhead.

He had slipped up. She knew about the second phone, and by tugging at that loose string, she'd unraveled his painstakingly woven tapestry of lies, just short of the biggest one of all: Walt manufactures the infamous pure blue meth. Even that one couldn't be long to come to light now.

Always so careful, always so certain of what would happen next, Walt now found himself at a loss. Where would he go from here?

In the sky was a great misty X, made by the trails of two airplanes as they crossed each other and continued along their trajectories.


	9. Apology Girl Returns--Part 2

**Chapter Nine: Apology Girl Returns, Part 2**

Saturday finally arrived. Jane departed the rehab facility to a round of "The change begins with you," and "Remember, recovery is a journey, not a destination." She smiled as pleasantly as possible at the counselors' clichés, but admitted to herself they weren't without some trace of truth. This backslide had been rough, but it was liberating now to walk outside into the fresh air, not crippled with cravings or wondering where the next fix would come from.

A horn honk drew her attention to a familiar Escalade in the parking lot, with Donald waving from the driver's seat. Suitcase rolling behind her, she made her way to the passenger side and was met with a quick hug from her father when she embarked.

"Happy belated birthday," he greeted.

Oh, yeah. She _had _had her 27th birthday in rehab. It had passed by without much fanfare, though one of the counselors had given her a card. "We're so proud you joined the _other _27 Club," it had read.

Donald reached between the two seats and produced a gift bag stuffed with blue tissue paper. Jane looked at him reluctantly, as he set it in her lap. "Y-you got me a…?"

"Well, don't look at me; look inside."

Gingerly, she pulled out the tissue paper until she could see a black hardback sketchbook within. She retrieved the book and thumbed through the blank pages, all begging to be drawn on. "Nice. Thanks, Dad."

"You said you filled yours," Donald recalled. "If you want to use this one to keep designing tattoos, it's up to you. I won't stop you, but stay smart."

"Hey, some of the NA folks are regulars at ABQ Ink," she reasoned. "I'll be in good company."

"I'm sure you will. …I may have underestimated the company you keep," he conceded.

As he spoke she retrieved her cell phone, newly returned to her, stared into its blank screen and pressed the power button. It wouldn't have surprised her to find it had been left on in storage and the battery was dead. Fortunately, it flickered to life instead.

"I better check my messages real quick," she mused aloud. "They've probably been blowing up my phone looking for me at the parlor."

Donald started the car and began to roll out of the parking lot. "Well, your boss will want to know why you haven't been showing up to work."

She hesitated. When _had_ she stopped showing up to work? After the relapse? After her Dad had caught on? She thought back to the events of six weeks ago. They were a blur on her memory, altered state that she'd been in.

The desktop screen revealed several missed calls from ABQ Ink. But, surprisingly, there were only two voicemail messages. She pressed Play. The first message was from her Dad.

_"Now how did I know you wouldn't be answering your phone?"_ his six-week-old recording chided_. _The message sounded surreal, like it was from a whole different era, meant for a whole different person._ "I'm on my way, and I expect you on the porch, bag packed. No excuses."_

That's right. He had wanted her to go to rehab. She'd packed her bag—all ready to go—then gotten weak and went out in search of one last hit, right? Or, at least that was what she had told him. But there had been more to it, she was almost certain.

She pressed Delete, and listened to the next message.

_"Yo, Jane."_

Her face fell. Jesse.

_"Yeah, uh, I just got out of line, and the guy at the counter says we need, like, passports and stuff before we can get tickets."_

Their plans to run away to New Zealand. It all came back to her. He must have called her from the airport before realizing she…

_"And there's not actually a plane that goes the whole way from here; we have to switch flights in, y'know, Honolulu or some weird place like that. Hey, maybe we could even chill there a day or two. I mean, that's where Piña Coladas come from, right?_"

An image flashed through her mind of a sunset-drenched shore in Hawaii's capital. The two of them sipped Piña Coladas in beach chairs on the pale sand, herself in a string bikini, him in luau surf trunks with that dragon tattoo-adorned bare chest for all the South Pacific to see. She hid a wistful grin. It never would have happened, sure…but it sounded pretty nice.

_"So, yeah. Soon as you get back inside, we'll check out this travel agency thing the guy told me about and, I guess, get everything taken care of. See you in a few." _Jesse's voicemail concluded.

Jane shut her phone and looked at it in silence for a second or two. The hazier memories of six weeks ago started to come into focus. A very heavy encumbrance bore down on her. She knew that feeling. It was guilt.

Oh, God. Those things she'd said back at the hospital.

She hung her head against the heels of her hand, hair draped down around her face. Jesse had been hanging onto this silly little fantasy like an answered prayer, and she'd tore it down ruthlessly for him. And for what? To get high.

"What's wrong?" Donald asked.

She squinted her eyes in stubborn refusal to let anything escape them and sat back upright. "Nothing, I just…I just got your voicemail," she responded in half-truth. "You know, from when you were on the way to pick me up that day."

"Oh…Jane, that was six weeks ago. Don't even think about that now," he advised her. "It's in the past, and the important thing now is that you got well, and that you _stay _well."

That was fair enough. But what she had done to Jesse _couldn't _remain in the past. Because apparently, even after she'd stolen and squandered that money…he had still cared about her. He'd cared enough to go looking for her in some drug-addled dive, then to scoop her up and rescue her from it. After all that, her only act of gratitude had been to rebuff him, to push him away from her. All she'd wanted to do was forget everything and watch TV.

He probably hated her now, and she wouldn't blame him.

"Where would you like to go for lunch?" Her father's voice lifted her out of her remorse.

Jane didn't care where they went—anywhere to keep her away from the apartment for a little while longer. "Anywhere's fine," she murmured. "Olive Garden work for you?"

At least she had a nice lunch—and maybe a glass of wine—to look forward to. At home, a pair of blue eyes that once lit up with enthusiasm at the sight of her would now be glaring in contempt. She dreaded having to face them.

(***)

Elsewhere in Albuquerque, Jesse was receiving a similar farewell from the counselors at Serenity. After a procession of a few hugs, some claps on the shoulder and parting words of encouragement, he ventured outside to find Mr. White waiting for him in the parking lot.

Several weeks ago, he would have imagined when this day came he'd be hand in hand with Jane, getting in his car, cranking up the tunes and turning over a new leaf together in sobriety. Now, finding none other than Mr. White waiting for him, he realized he felt no regret at all.

After the way he'd timidly stood back and let Jane extort his pay cut, he expected Mr. White to be the last one to come through for him. But as it turned out, it was thanks to him that Jesse had been able to find Jane before she wasted all the money. It was thanks to him that Jesse had gotten clean. When he had no one else in the world, he owed everything to his former schoolteacher and drug-running partner.

In lieu of confessing all this, however, he simply got in the passenger seat and acknowledged the shiny finish to the exterior of the vehicle.

"New wax job?"

"Yeah," Mr. White affirmed stoically. The two began to roll away.

"Listen, uh, money," the driver spoke up. "Saul has got it for you, so as soon as you're feeling better…"

"I'm better," Jesse assured him.

He glanced aside off the road, as if pleasantly surprised. "You're better? Really? What, the rehab? It helped?"

A shrug. "Yeah. I'm done using."

"That's excellent. That's very good, Jesse, very good," Mr. White commended. Although Jesse had practically been inundated by such compliments at Serenity, somehow it meant more coming from the person in the seat beside him. He smiled.

At a stop sign, Mr. White turned to face him. "Just presenting this as an option…it's entirely up to you," he began. "But if you need someplace to crash awhile, consider the door to my condo open."

"Condo?" Jesse repeated uncertainly.

"…Little friction in the marriage right now," his counterpart explained. "Strictly temporary. We're just taking a little break." He seemed, himself, to be the one in need of convincing. "My point is, I'd understand if you wanted to be away from her."

As his checkout date had loomed in the past few days, Jesse had wrestled with the idea of going back to the duplex. No other property in town would rent to him, as he'd learned forcibly after his parents threw him out. And what little money remained from Jane's spending spree wasn't enough to buy a place by a longshot. He didn't know what to expect from her after a month and a half apart, but it was tempting to take Mr. White's offer up, if only to avoid her.

"That's cool, Mr. White," Jesse remarked appreciatively. "But if there's one thing I learned in rehab, it's you either run from things, or you face them."

"What's that mean?"

"It's all about accepting who you are," Jesse relayed the recurring theme from many of his sessions. "I'm not gonna run away from her. I accept who we are. She's just the manager, and I'm just the tenant."

(***)

Home at last. This was it.

After Donald dropped her off, Jane discovered a white trash bag full of her belongings slumped unceremoniously at the front door. Swallowing hard, she knocked on the door next to hers.

"Jesse? Lemme talk to you. …Please?" Then, in a softer voice, "I…I'm s…"

There was no answer. Maybe he was just out. But his car was here. _What did you expect? _She berated herself mentally. _He's avoiding you. _She tried the doorknob and found it locked.

With a sigh she headed on into her flat, leaving her suitcase and the trash bag in the living room with the resolve to unpack later. She ventured through the bedroom—still a shambles from her hurried packing last month—and out the back door to her patio. Craning her neck over to his side, she saw the door with the hole had been replaced. "Inviting" herself in wasn't an option.

Closing her eyes momentarily, she thought of all the awkwardly strained smoke breaks they'd be having out here soon. …Come to think of it, she could use a smoke now, while she still had a moment alone. She disappeared inside and returned with her pack, and her new sketchbook.

After the first deep inhalation of smoke vented out her nostrils and mouth into the air, she opened the book to the first page. Determinedly, she started a sketch. Apology Girl's head began to take shape, complete with a contrite pout on her face. In her hand waved a billowing white flag…

Jane tore the page out, crumpled it up and dropped it onto the ground where she promptly squashed the paper wad under her foot. Then, for good measure, she put her cigarette out on it.

Apologies were always so much easier for her to draw than to say. But she wouldn't be able to scribble her way out of this. It wasn't just another misunderstanding, like when she'd introduced Jesse to her father as "the new tenant" and not "the street pusher I'm fooling around with." Nothing short of looking him in the eyes and producing her least favorite words in the English language-"I'm sorry"—had any remote chance of fixing this. But how could she do that, if he wouldn't even let her talk to him?

After a smoldering hole had been born through the discarded sketch, she stood up abruptly out of her chair. This was ridiculous. She was the manager of this duplex; she had a key. Nothing prevented her from letting herself in next door and insisting to talk to her tenant.

Striding back into her room, she opened a sock drawer. At the back hid a small wooden box, which slid open to reveal a spare key on a rubber band. She emptied it into her waiting palm.

The band pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and the key dangled before her gaze. She stopped and looked at it for a moment.

No. Not like this.

She dropped the key back in the box, returned the box to the drawer and closed it. She'd betrayed his trust as a girlfriend—this wasn't the time to betray his trust as property manager, too. He had to _want _to see her. He had to come to her, or let her come to him. All she could do was wait…which was precisely what she was going to do.

Heading outside a final time, she sat down and got comfortable with her sketchbook and another cigarette. Her pencil busied itself with the latest fruits of her imagination…fruits that someone would later pay to have engraved into their skin, if all went well.

Jesse would talk to her when he was ready. She could wait for him. Jane Margolis had all the time in the world.


End file.
